Remarks.—The Slasher fought better than we have seen him on any previous occasion; his confidence and condition—of which latter absurd rumours were afloat—were on a par with his coolness and courage. To the former he added tact in waiting for his opponent’s delivery of a blow, and a skill in counter-hitting for which we did not give him credit; this, added to his physical superiority in weight and thews, left his lighter and more active opponent almost without a chance, and the contest was reduced to a mere question of time, the ultimate result being scarcely within the scope of doubt. Of the defeated man we can only say that although he fought three or four rounds in a spirited—nay, an almost desperate manner, his conduct in the vast majority so much savoured of Falstaff’s “better part of valour,” that his claim to the character of a game man still remains unproven, while his attribute of skill, so loudly vaunted by his infatuated admirers, has suffered considerably by this exhibition; this, however, may partly be owing to the improvement in his antagonist’s tactics which, by frustrating his earlier efforts, so disheartened him that he never showed to less advantage. The question of superiority can no longer be mooted; Tass’s quickness and skill have lost their striking advantage, while the Slasher’s strength and pluck, on this occasion seconded by a respectable amount of science, have by no means fallen off. Tass’s friends attribute his defeat to his having had two ribs broken in the seventh round, from the Slasher falling heavily on him, and he certainly remained under the surgeon’s hands, who confirmed the aforesaid fracture.
After the above battle, the Tipton Slasher issued a challenge to Caunt to fight for £100 a side; this Caunt declined to do, and staked £500 in the hands of the editor of Bell’s Life, declaring, at the same time, his willingness to fight the Slasher for £500, but for no smaller sum. Much angry correspondence passed between them, which is utterly unworthy of preservation; and in the latter part of 1846 Johnny Broome presented a belt to the Slasher, whereon Caunt lowered his terms to £200, with a stipulation that if that condition was not accepted within a month, his retirement from the Ring was absolute. This, however, was not suitable to Broome and Co., though the Slasher was ready and willing.[20]
We may hear note, retrospectively, that in December, 1844, yet another “big ’un” had made his debut in the P.R., who, in a future chapter, will figure among the numerous candidates for the much-wrangled Championship. This was Tom Paddock, who, in the month of December, beat Elijah Parsons, at Sutton Coldfield. Following this, he twice defeated Nobby Clarke, a chicken-hearted but scientific 12-stone man, in January, 1846, and in April, 1847. Paddock’s next venture was with the renowned Bendigo, with whom he lost the battle by a foul blow, June 5, 1850.
In September, 1849, the Tipton, having forfeited to Con Parker, on account of ill-health, was challenged thereafter by Tom Paddock, soon after the latter had lost what many thought to be a winning fight with Bendigo. In this affair, by some shuffling on the part of Perry’s money-finders, a curious “draw” was manipulated, neither of the parties being ready to go on at the fourth deposit, on August 22nd, 1850, taking back their stakes by mutual consent. The Slasher, finding other and more reliable friends, renewed the articles, and on December 17th, 1850, the rivals at last came together, face to face, in the ring. The Tipton trained for this encounter under Levi Eckersley, near Liverpool, while Paddock had his advice and exercise with Bob Fuller and Jem Turner, than whom two better trainers did not exist.
On the Monday previous, the Slasher arrived at Tom Spring’s, and Paddock set up his rest at Jem Burn’s, where they were surrounded by admiring coteries. The betting was 6 to 4 on the Slasher, whose superior weight and experience gave him that advantage in the odds.
All requisite arrangements for the meeting had been undertaken by Spring and Burn, and after sundry cogitations they decided on an excursion-train on the South Western Railway. Half-past nine on Tuesday morning was the time named for departure, and long before that hour arrived, the platform at Waterloo displayed a goodly muster of folks “wot love a mill,” including many old stagers, “swells,” and patrons of all degrees. The professors were also numerous in their attendance, and included twenty men who had been selected to preserve order. We could not but remark, however, the absence of that quaint fun and humour which, in the days of Josh Hudson, Jack Scroggins, Young Dutch Sam, and Frosty-faced Fogo, flung an air of good-humoured frolic on such assemblages, affording scenes for the pencil of George Cruikshank, and food for the pen-and-ink sketches of the Ring-historians of the day. To the question “Whither are we bound?” no response was given. The captain started with sealed orders, and had a sort of roving commission as to the place at which he should cast anchor. Suffice it to say, the pace was first-rate and there was but one stoppage till Bishopstoke was reached. The men were in separate carriages, and there was a wide contrast in their bearing, Paddock being all mercurial and double jolly, and the Slasher as solid and steady as Cardinal Wiseman on a fast-day.
It was intended to turn off on the Salisbury line and bring up at Dean, on the borders of Wilts. The Hampshire police, however, were on the alert, with an assurance that the Wiltshire folks were equally wide-awake, and determined to spoil sport. Information to this extent was quickly conveyed to the managers, and, after a short consultation, “bock agen” was the order of the day. Various places were mentioned as likely to afford a quiet and welcome reception, and the first attempt was made between Andover and Winchfield, but no sooner was the ring pitched than the Hampshire blues once more hove in sight, and the jaded travellers had again to enter the carriages. Thus was time wasted, and the hour of three arrived before the caravan again got under way. It was then agreed to go to Woking Common, and many bets were offered that the contest would not come off that day. A strong desire, however, was expressed that it should be settled, and about half-past three a stoppage was made between a couple of high embankments, which, on being scaled, exposed to view a remote corner of Woking Common. The land of promise thus reached, the office was given, for the last time, to disembark. A site for a ring was quickly discovered, and although not a very desirable spot, still, it was the only one to be had, and no time was lost in forming the magic square. A limited outer ring was also formed, and tickets, at 5s. each, distributed to those who sought the privilege of a close proximity to the scene of action, the produce being afterwards equally divided among the ringkeepers. It was now four o’clock, and the day fast waning; in fact, it was difficult to distinguish the faces of persons from one side of the ring to the other; but a clear moon hung out its lamp, and promised a continuance of light. All being in readiness, Paddock flung his castor into the ring, following it himself amidst loud cheers. He was attended by Jack Hannan and Bob Fuller. The Slasher, who was not long after him, was waited on by Nobby Clarke and Jem Molyneux. Paddock looked fresh, laughing, and apparently confident; while the Slasher was cool, quiet, and smiling. After a great deal of difficulty as to the selection of a referee, both parties agreed upon Ned Donnelly. Jem Burn addressed this functionary on the part of Paddock, and said all he wanted was a fair and manly fight, and that there should be no captious objections to any accidental occurrence. He wished the merits of the men might be fairly tested, and only desired that the best man might win. The men now prepared for action, and at thirty minutes past four, the rising moon looking modest from the east, and the last rays of the setting sun painting the western horizon, the gladiators appeared at the scratch, and commenced
THE FIGHT.
Round 1.—The men having chosen their corners, fortune enabled the Slasher to place his back to the rising moon, so that his toothless mug was in shade. His herculean frame was, however, sufficiently visible, and his easy confidence and quiet deportment increased the confidence of his friends, and led all who scanned his proportions to consider him perfectly competent to hit down a hippopotamus; or, like the Greek boxer of old, floor a cantankerous bull, even without the assistance of the cestus. Paddock, although when opposed to Bendigo he appeared of the burly breed, loomed small in contrast with the Slasher. The disparity in their size was obvious, and as he jumped about seeking an opening, a veteran ring-goer exclaimed, “It’s any odds against the young’un, he’s got his master before him now.” In fact, the very style of holding up his hands, and the yokel-like feints (completely out of distance) with which he commenced, showed he was puzzled how to begin the job he had so confidently undertaken; presently he determined to chance it, and jumped in. Fortune favours the bold, and he gave the Slasher a clout on the jaw-bone with his left, the Tipton hitting in return on his shoulder or breast, and driving him back. The Slasher stepped in; Paddock retreated before him to his corner, hitting up again, but the Tipton stopped him. A smart exchange took place, and Paddock slipped down to get out of mischief.
2.—Paddock began by trying his left twice, and barely reaching the Slasher, who dealt him a body blow with the right. Some heavy hits in weaving style, and a half-round body blow or two followed, the sound rather than the effect of the hitting being perceptible. The Tipton closed with Paddock, who struggled for a moment, and was then thrown on his back, the Tipton lending him thirteen stone additional to hasten his fall.